


The Long and Short of It

by DizzyDrea



Category: White Collar
Genre: Embarrassing Injuries, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-28 01:14:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/668581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DizzyDrea/pseuds/DizzyDrea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter has an unfortunate run-in with an inept art thief. Neal's not helping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Long and Short of It

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a friend who was sick in hospital. She needed some cheering up, so I figured if Peter was in a worse situation than she was, that might make her feel better. And no, it wasn't his lucky suit.
> 
> Disclaimer: White Collar is the property of Jeff Eastin, Fox Television Studios, USA Networks, and a lot of other people who aren't me. I do this for fun and for practice. Mostly for fun.

~o~

"I'm never going to live this down, am I?"

Neal looks at Peter, stretched out on his stomach on the hospital bed. He's trying not to laugh; trying valiantly, but he's losing the battle. It's a _there but for the grace of God_ moment, but he just can't help himself.

"Only you, Peter, would find the world's most inept art thief," he says.

Peter scowls at him. "You could have been a little more helpful."

"Hey, I'm not the FBI agent," Neal says, holding his hands up. "You're the one that's always telling me to stay out of the way."

"And you pick today to listen to me?"

"Besides, I like this suit," Neal says, tugging at his cuffs and smoothing down the lapels.

"So did I," Peter says sardonically.

He glances over his shoulder, and Neal's eyes follow the line of Peter's back, down to his ruined suit pants. There's a wad of gauze sticking out of the hole in his pants, and blood staining the fabric inside and out. He knows he should feel bad; he dodged out of the way as their inept art thief waved the gun around without regard to where he was pointing it. It was just Peter's stupid luck that the gun went off while it was pointed at him.

He remembers the absolute shock on Peter's face when the bullet struck home. He'd limped toward the thief, his expression thunderous as he wrenched the gun out of the man's hand and slapped the cuffs on him himself.

With that done, Peter had sunk to the curb, exhausted and in pain, only to leap to his feet, hand clasped to his ass cheek and righteous indignation on his face.

Neal can't help it; he bursts out in peals of laughter, just the memory of Peter's expression of outrage enough for him to lose control. By the time he's gotten control of himself—mostly—Peter's scowl has deepened, and he knows he's a fraction of a second from getting himself thrown out.

"Sorry, sorry," he mumbles, still trying to get control of himself. He turns pleading eyes on Peter. "I'm sorry, Peter. Really, I am."

Peter sighs. "It's not your fault."

"Look at it this way, the doctor says two weeks and you'll be good as new."

"Yeah, and for the next two weeks, I won't be able to sit down, and everyone will know why." He rubs a hand over his face. "Fifteen years on the job and the first time I get shot, it's in the ass."

"Buck up, Peter," Neal says, smiling. "After this, karma's going to owe you one."

Peter smirks. "I can't wait to collect."

~Finis


End file.
